Dolls and Dummies, they're all crummy.

Man, I give up on horror movies. I was really looking forward to Dead Silence. It had all the elements needed to freak me out for at least a week:
1) A ventriloquist dummy that comes to life (that Goosebumps book, Night of the Living Dummy, fucked me up pretty good back in 5th grade).
2) Bitter, (dead) old ladies seeking revenge on an entire town.

Last time I checked out a scary movie at a theater (not counting Zodiac because I was too mesmerized by Jake Gyllenhaal to pay attention to the scary stuff) was back in 2005 for Saw II. I didn't have much of a problem with that movie, I was entertained, but never scared. Prior to that, the scary movie was Darkness Falls in 2003... that one was horrible. I found myself laughing out loud for various parts of the movie as couples would only look up at me like "WTF is her problem?"

I was a little apprehensive about going to the movie because I knew that I'd come out either very disappointed or very paranoid. I was shooting for the latter (although I have friends that would attest to me already being sufficiently paranoid). I thought, since I'm a sucker for the Saw movies (they don't scare me... they just make me "Ah! That must suck," all the time) and the people making this Silence movie are the same ones, that I'd love the thing... and maybe.... possibly... be scared at some point.

Sadly, it didn't deliver. I must say there was only one part of the movie where I had to cover my mouth because of a "No, you dumb ass!" moment, and another where I was shaking my head "Don't do it, man." Other than that, I was either laughing or rolling my eyes. Still, it wasn't BAD like Darkness Falls, so I'm not complaining too much (the ending was ok, I suppose).

If they wanted to know scary, they should have gone to my mom's cousin's house in California the day of her funeral. Now that was scary.
Dolls to my left and right.Dolls on the floor next to the bed.
Dolls when I walked out of the room and headed towards the bathroom.

That was the deceased lady's room... which I was "lucky" enough to sleep in all alone. The things I saw and heard that night still send chills down my spine.

Learn from that, "professionals!" (I kid, I kid. I figure I'm just not a chick meant to watch "scary" flicks because I overanalyze... unless they're dealing with the end of the world. Those manage to scare me to the point where I become unbelievably irrational. Too bad they don't make too many movies about that).

Ew... Mrs. AnoMALIE? Hell naw!

I got that in the mail today.
It's this cool... do-it-yourself postcard from a friend of mine.
I met him Fall of '05, dodged all his advances for a few months, and finally ended up with a really cool friendship.
It wasn't that I thought he was unattractive (he's actually pretty hot), it's just that he was looking to settle down. Cool for him, not for me. I told him I was in college, and somehow, he just couldn't get that into his head. He thought I was doing shit like... I don't know... theater? Nothing wrong with theater, but he thought maybe I'd be cool with settling down... and maybe continue with college as a hobby. Who needs the girl to work when the man in the relationship is a professional choreographer?
Hahahaha. Riiight.
So, rather than fight with him about it, I just decided never to see him in that way (I went as far as calling him my cousin... even though we're not). He'd invite me to the movies, to dinner, and dance shows on a weekly basis. The only place I ever agreed to hang out was at the arcade this one time when his two nieces (that I babysat back when I was 13) were in town.
The guy tried until this past September, when he finally got tired of it, and asked another chick out.
They seemed happy together, I was glad for him, and continued on with my single, lonely life (not complaining here).

I knew he loved the girl, I do read his Myspace. I just never knew he was so serious.
Dating from September '06 to March '07 and they're now engaged to have a summer wedding in Ecuador? Daaaaaamn! That is fast acting!
The postcard was sent from Ecuador, where he went to ask for the girl's hand in marriage back in February. It's cute. Personalized. He sounds excited. I RSVPed. Trip to Ecuador in the summer? Shit, count me in! Who cares if we had a little thing for each other less than a year ago. It's not like we fucked (ok, I got vulgar there. Maybe I'm a little hostile).

However, the postcard got me thinking: I could have been the one getting married this summer (AHAHAHAHA! Ok... good laugh)!
I'm guessing since I'd be marrying this guy, I too would send my beach picture* as a postcard to friends: Ecuador postcard said something about "I'd walk with you to the end of the world..." yada yada yada.
I'm guessing mine would say:
"You can't tell, but while you were riding that 'banana' ride in the Mazatlan waves, I was on the balcony of our room reading the Epic of Gilgamesh... staring at the sunset, hoping that to be the only banana you ever ride."

Or maybe this one: (You make me feel like I can touch the sky.
Really? Do I make you feel like you can pass all those damn cars too?) I'm quite the optimist... but... I'm also a realist, my friend.

Not so cool with that one? How about this one:
(Marry you? How 'bout you help me rebuild them there houses first?) Pretty landscape and I avert the question in the sweetest way possible, without ever saying no. Plus, what better than finding a hardworkin' man that'll carry huge rocks and place them in really neat stacks sturdy enough to make an entire house? Nothing says marriage material more than that.

And for the picture that describes my TRUE feelings about it all: Me, Cynical? Why would you ever say that?

I really do hope everything goes well for my homie, though.
I'm just being jealous because I don't have anyone to hold my hand on the Ecuadorian beach and tell me sweet nothings that I'd laugh my ass off to.

*all pictures were taken by me, in the country of Mexico. First two in the city of Mazatlan. The last two in my sweet little hometown that smells YUMMY each time it rains... screw Ecuador (I kid!! It's a beautiful country with excellent, sweet, caring people)!

When I grow up, I wanna be just like my mom!

I've always had a hard time finding a good gift for Mom.

I look around for days... but after around the fifth day, I tend to do the hippie thing and just handcraft her something (it's worked for 21 years. Birthdays, Mother's Days... you name it).

Look Ma! I made this with my bare hands! It's a cup! Happy birthday!
Yeah, it made me feel a little guilty... and sometimes wonder why she never said something like:
"Enough, Frida Kahlo! I want a real gift!"

But finally! After so many years, the idea for the perfect gift has dawned on me:
Some people may see this as lame; yesterday, I would have agreed. Who the hell wants a briefcase for a present?

Well, recently, my folks have ran into a lot of paper work. Visiting their CPA more often than usual.
They carry along this really important contract that I've never seen so much drama over. Then today, for the first time, I saw what my mother carries these "very important" papers in:

Have you ever seen Donald Trump walking around with that shit? No. Not one of those wannabe apprentices, either.

I laughed for a while... especially once Mom started laughing.

Me: What the hell is this?
I was going to throw the bag and its contents in the trash, but Mom stood in my way as she drank some water from the faucet (I've never been too fond of that habit). Mom looked over as I held the bag. She was going to say something, but instead, she spewed the water that was in her mouth and laughed out loud.
Me: What?
Mom: No! (laugh) That's my (laughed hard enough for me not to make out a word)...
Me: Your what?
Mom: That's my "Business Woman Bag!"
Me: You mean... you go visit David (CPA) with this thing?
Mom laughed harder.
Me: He hands you the papers... and you stuff them in this bag? And you hand him things... from this bag?
Mom was laughing too hard to talk, she just nodded.
Me: Couldn't you at least make it an Albertson's bag?

Oh, my dear mother... you win the prize when it comes to penny pinching!

Spring is here, I smell it in the fire.

I love March!
Not only do I celebrate my birthday in March (which... isn't so great now that I'm getting older... it's kind of sad, actually), but Spring time comes around the corner. While Vegas spring is not as awesome as Spring time in North Cal, it's pretty damn sweet. The unbearable heat still hasn't hit the city, and there are days when there's a slight breeze and it doesn't feel so bad to breathe.

I don't suffer from allergies, unless mulberry trees are doing their best to pollinate around me... which is true in the case of the food court (is it a food court?) at UNLV by the Sidewalk Cafe. I dodge that shit like the plague during the Spring. Aside from that, I have a blast around pollen (Haaaa! I have to, there are 10 fruit trees and 10 palm trees in my back yard thanks to my yokel parents. j/k. Silly me, Mexicans can't be yokels)

Anyway, when spring (is it capitalized? I won't capitalize in this case just to spice things up--I've been watching WAY too much Rachel Ray) rolls around my family gets in the habit of throwing little barbecues. I don't typically enjoy these things, since I have an irrational, semi-fear of fire (well, it's not that irrational. My siblings have almost burnt down the house not once, but twice) and I'm not a huge fan of meat (except on Fridays during Lent. The devil tries his best to tempt my weak soul and meat looks especially good to me then).

Well, this fear of mine only increases when I see who's in charge of the grill. Mom handles it most the time... and I'm not scared in those instances because she knows how to handle fire. However, if my father is ever left in charge, I tend to hang out by the fire extinguisher... or I just hook up the hose to the nearest faucet and keep that near the grill.

Also, I wouldn't be so scared if my parents grilled on our normal grill:
To the left, exhibit A: Notice the DIRT. Is it obvious enough that my folks don't use that shit, or what?

No, no. My dad has befriended some crazy man... who swears up and down by this thing:
To the right, exhibit B: Weirdest, scariest grill in the universe that my dad received as a gift from Crazy Man.

Now... seriously... the flames on that bad boy get enormous. I'm really shocked the neighbors haven't called the fire department yet.
It also screams out: HOBO! I can just imagine a pack of vagrants huddled around this thing in the winter just to keep warm.

Regardless of what I think, my family sure loves "grilling" aka burning our meat here (talk about burning, today we were all looking at that fire that broke out in the "wetlands." It was pretty sad. Sure put a damper on our little BBQ day). They have a blast, eat a lot... drink... dance... scream (Yeah. Scream...either while arguing or just being musical... if that's at all possible to imagine. Oh! Like Mariachis!) and then leave us to clean the place up.
Now, after all this day's activities, I'm tired and smell like ash.
Just another wonderful spring day.

But I guess I don't mind. As long as I have this little guy to smile at me (and eating some of the paper plates liter-bug cousins leave behind):

Ugly, dirty dog... his enormous smile makes me forget how dirty and scary he is... and I just wanna hug the little monster.

Talking about smiles!!
I've been running an experiment on myself over the past few months and it isn't until recently that I've noticed results.

I've been known to suffer a lot from chapped lips ("Ew, gross!" Yeah, shut up, I know). I've had the problem since... I don't know... I was born? I get nervous a lot, and as a way of coping, I tend to tear the hell out of my fingers. When those are in too much pain, I tend to go after my lips. They're such a huge canvas... I tend to get a little out of control and there comes the problem. I also lick my lips like nobody's business (but NEVER while checking someone out. NEVER).
So, after much aggravation with constantly touching my rough lips and... no, I take it back, I wont go into further, disgusting details. I just wondered what it'd feel like to regularly have soft lips (dumb, I know... but I only have soft lips a couple of times a year, when the weather's just right).
On New Years I made the resolutions of:
1)Not picking at my lips
2)Saturating my lips with Vaseline on a daily basis, at all times... just not when going to school. I can back off a little there.

Now, I went drastic with Vaseline because that shit's quite disgusting. It tastes like... well, petroleum. Nothing like the Bath & Body Works Raspberry lip balm I buy and then proceed to lick off, which only exacerbates the problem. It would force me to quit licking my bottom lip.

You see that! I mean, that has "OUCH!" written all over! I had to do something, especially since I often found myself saying "Shut up! Don't make me laugh! I'll bleed!" (I feel like a chick on those ProActive commercials right now. Vaseline should pick me up as a spokesperson. "Try it, it tastes like shit, but man, does it get the job done!")

I've been applying Vaseline for over... 2 months now and while I started off rocky (licking my lips a couple of times only to be met by one of the most wretched tastes I've come to know), but I now have normal-looking lips (you know, like a freakin' human), worthy of Maybelline commercials (riiight). Now if only this damn Listerine Whitening worked a little faster... and I wouldn't be so paranoid about using brightly colored lipstick (I claim to look like a hooker... I just can't get that out of my head. You try growing up in the hood and tell me if seeing hoes at your bus stop corner on a daily basis doesn't mess you up).

Aww... that last picture sure looks porntastic (Maybe it's all that Vaseline... saying that so often makes me think of Lisa Simpson). I shall try not doing that again... if only I could remember what I was thinking during the picture (probably "This is fucking retarded and I don't wanna smile") . And on the first picture... I was whistling... not blowing a kiss like all those emo girls on Myspace. I don't blow kisses... unless it's Tyson and I don't wanna go outside to get tackled by him.
.

My bad... you PAID for me to know this

I love my auntie! She knows how to get me in trouble:

Soon-to-be-cousin-in-law: I didn't know there was so much birth-control out there.
Me: Tons.
(I withdraw from the conversation and go back to my "Super Drop Mania" on the cell phone. This isn't going to end right.)
Soon-to-be-cousin-in-law: Yeah, but I didn't know condoms were a sin for Catholics.
Auntie: Yeah... I heard something about that.
Mom: You should know this Comadre, you studied at a convent! Sometimes, you can get special permission from the...
(I didn't hear whom... Bishop? Pope?! I don't know. I wouldn't go that far in asking for permission to use a condom to anyone)
Auntie: I've never used one.
(By now, I'm wishing I had headphones on)
Soon-to-be-cousin-in-law: That's all your son and I used before hearing about it in class the other day.
(Really wished I had headphones on)

Long pause. I look up from the phone... cousin in-law's staring at her fingers, Mom's staring at cousin in-law, Auntie's looking at the stove.

Auntie: How do you put it on?

Silence... well, besides my mom laughing.

Soon-to-be-cousin-in-law: Your son does that.
Me: I've heard there are girls out there that can do it using only their mouths.

Silence. Cousin in-law stares at me, Mom glares at me, Auntie scrunches her eyebrows and places her hands on the table.

Auntie: Now why would you ever want to do that?

Silence. Cousin in-law stares at me, Mom burns a hole through me, and Auntie alternates between staring at the three of us.

Me: What? I go to college... I hear things.
(Super Drop Mania stage 10, level 8, here I come)

That is by far the quickest way to getting a dirty look from my mother. I'm surprised she didn't lean over to pinch me.


That is why I usually keep quiet... and all information to myself.

Since when am I a Sesame Street fan?

I had a pretty cool dream last night... I would have called it "THE coolest dream" but it got all weird at the end (and what good dream doesn't turn bizarre towards the end?).

I found myself at some Midway (I couldn't figure it out if it was the Circus-Circus Midway... or the Excalibur one... or any other one, because it was sort of a mix of all the Midways I've ever been to, which are all pretty much one and the same). I remember it was for a little kid party, and no one else really wanted to go with me to this thing (which is very true to life. I find myself at little kid parties more often than any other family member I know. I never liked piñatas as a kid... but now, I sit back and have a blast watching little kids pelt those things like my drunken uncles would back in the early 90's as they held the ropes to the piñata from a roof. Safe shit, huh?). I went with someone... and there were people my age there, but like me, they were all playing some sort of Midway game... earning tickets of all things. I can't remember any sort of dialogue, just people "ooh-ing" and "ah-ing."

Instead of going for the ticket-giving machines like all the normal people, I went straight for those claw games... where you can win stuffed animals or really bad, faux jewelry. I remember I kept winning stuffed animals... and I was all excited because the games weren't rigged like at the Circus-Circus (who the hell can win a basketball with the diameter of... what? 9 inches? While the diameter of the open claw is only 6?<-- I say that as if I ever worked as a Carny or some shit). I remember the stuffed animals were all Sesame Street characters... or more like Elmo-esque little creatures in different colors (but I guess they could have been Cookie Monster, Elmo, and Oscar the grouch. Throughout the dream, I remember thinking "Hey... do they have a black character on sesame street?" Mainly because I really liked the black Elmo-esque doll and tried very hard to get one).
The coolest part was that I kept getting quarters out of nowhere. I remember the quarters didn't come from my wallet, but the people throwing the event... and the machines would just give the quarters to you if you pressed the little red buttons that read "50 cents" or "25 cents." There were no "$1.00" buttons... cause even in my dreams, I never go near those machines.

Wow! These people are awesome! I've used up like 16 bucks and they still give me money!

The dream turned weird at the end when the games started shutting off on their own and everyone was leaving as if the building were on fire or attacked by killer bees. As I started to run, all of a sudden I was at my old high school, holding a pin I had to get to my old PE teacher. I remember cutting through many tennis matches and people lined up like Armies. The field turned into the same one I had dreamt myself in not too long ago, where I underwent basic training. Then my joy turned to fear and I woke up almost immediately.

WTF is my problem?? I was having a good time at the Midway!

I should have never given the Marines a thought... now they won't leave me alone, not even in my dreams.

What's best though, is when I "interpret" my dream on-line... I get shit like this:

Stuffed Animal

To see a stuffed animal in your dream, represents an immature attitude. You may be trying to escape from your daily responsibilities and problems. Alternatively, it may indicate your need to relax and be less serious. You need to allow your mind and body to rejuvenate.

To dream that a stuffed animal is choking you, indicates that something that was originally emotionally comforting is now giving you much stress. You are feeling emotionally restricted and unable to communicate how you feel especially in matters of the heart.

If a stuffed animal would have been choking me (the worst thing that happened in my dream was when the stuffed animals were stolen from me at some point), I would have freaked the hell out and seen a therapist... screw interpreting that.

Thanks for bringing it back (no Justin, not your sexy, although, thank you for that)

Finally!
I go to a school where a sport I'm actually following wins something!

Actually, no, I take that back. I remember the Durango High School days when I'd walk into the gym and see all the trophies and whatnot (oh... but I must go back to my original claim and emphasize: actually following. What did I care about women's bowling? And women's volleyball I liked while playing, never watching).

A far cry from my Sierra Vista days... I think we won maybe... a state title in wrestling (and once again, what did I care about wrestling that wasn't cauliflower ear- related?).

It's been five years since my basketball days, and it's just now that I can go back and watch a live game without getting the urge to jump off a balcony and end the pain.

It takes a while for me to get over traumatic experiences... and that time spent on the basketball team really messed me up good. Sure, it made me lean and mean... but oh, the emotional drama and the bitching! I think it was my junior year of high school where I decided never to hang out with so much estrogen in what remains of my life ( 2-3 girls in my group of friends each time I go out, max. Any more and someone ends up in tears or missing some earring).

I was the only idiot who actually followed directions, showed up to practice (missing only two and having that waved in my face for the rest of the season; while some bitches would be smoking weed outside the gym and showing up an hour late for practice with a brownie in hand), and had good grades (straight A's... minus that one B in that sexist-son-of-a-bitch Mr. Thomas' pre-calc class). These girls were bitching about dealing with pre-algebra and I was busting my ass in A.P. history... and they still got to start.
If it weren't for my Dennis Rodman skills, I probably would have been benched the entire season. Fucking bullshit. Instead, Shawn Marion's little sister took my spot (but she was the nicest of the group... so I think it was done intentionally because they knew I'd never bitch at her... and who could hate on such a nice guy's little sister? Bastard coaches).

I sometimes have nightmares of running suicides and making lay-ups. I hated those things... and I still can't do the left handed lay-up for the life of me.

All that practice, and all that... trauma, for nothing. I think we went... I have no idea... but I'm pretty sure we won about 4 games... and who starred in those games? Me! But nooo... let the cry-baby, idiot, ballhog girl have her way and drive us into the hole because she wants to have a school record with 23 points a game... while the other team out-scores us 75 points!

Oh! And the spectators! Freakin' A! The spectators! I'd always get the urge to just run into the stands and knock over the pushy, loudmouthed, lazy-ass moms screaming at me.

I'll block your fucking pork of a daughter all I want! The point IS to keep her from scoring. It's not my fault she can't mow me down like the rest of the team when she charges. Tell her to quit thinking she's the 5'2" female version of Shaq. Maybe that way she'll quit getting so many damn personal fouls called out against her.

Moms would be having a cow because I'd be able to stand my ground (unknowingly... I'm just accustomed to having people lunge and me not budging. Comes with the territory of being the playmate of an only-brother) and their dumb daughters kept getting caught after about the fifth time they charge me (I scored about 50 points that way). Then they'd get pissed if I managed to catch up to their slow offspring and strip the ball from them. Give me a break, man.

These moms weren't nice. What 45 year-old woman calls a 17 year-old girl a "motherfucking cunt!"? C'mon now! Call me that when I can't get hauled off by school security after slapping you around a bit, dumb ass lady.

Then I'd get the occasional:

Damn, girl! Look at that ass! You just keep jumpin'!
Can I get yo' number?

The gender of the people screaming that would also vary. You'd try to be nice... tell them you don't swing that way... but so many mini-Iversons following you to the locker room would eventually turn traumatizing 'cause you'd find yourself sizing them up from time to time thinking "Yeah, I can take her if she came at me."

It'd be worse when they'd eye you from the sidelines, only to get a feel on you during a rebound or their so-called "screens."

Dibs on the Latina with the two French-braids. Umm.
Fuck... I knew the braids were a bad idea...

I've never felt so much ass-on-leg action in my life (and I wish never again). Not even the lambada compares. Those were moments I wished I were short enough to play point guard instead of forward.

See, it's not pretty... and it was stressing the crap out of me... not to mention it gave me shin-splints like a motha...

But let's just forget about that sad part of my basketball-loving experience. It's just great to know that it's in the past, and UNLV, of all schools, made me feel better about watching the sport. Thanks fellas, you really rock.

Haha, Older Brother! Your fighting Irish may have gone to the Sugar Bowl (how the hell did you spend all that money, retard?) back in January, but my Rebs actually won their shit! (Not hating on Notre Dame, how could I? They introduced me to the ever so handsome Brady Quinn! Plus, I own a jersey, pajamas, and a sweater all with some sort of ND-affiliation. I can't really despise a team whose logo I rock)




Victory feels good.